Quotable Maria

Doesn't Maria's determined, yet far-off expression remind you of a romantic poet?

   Check this out. 

 

A few memorable lines:

While using the creamer from her tea set to pour imaginary water over Louisa's head:
  "I am bath-tizing Weeza!"

During our afternoon snack, Maria sums up the perks of being older:
"Loulou eats paper and I eat cake"

After seeing that the toilet still looks rather dirty despite my efforts:
"Mommy, you need to try cleaning the toilet again."

Donnie's beard is a little on the long side:
"Daddy, your face needs a haircut."

Upon going into the bathroom:
 "Oh-my-gosh, it is tinksy in here!"

Though Maria's rearrangement of s diphthongs probably won't be with us much longer, "Tinksy" is on its way to being a permanent part of the family vocabulary. 

Let Them Eat Cake

Maria, playing with salt dough.  Her apron was a gift that Donnie bought during his trip to Assisi. He bought a matching one for me :)

Maria has a long-standing interest in cake. Not that she has eaten many cakes in her life (until recently). We think it began last summer when she saw an older neighbor girl making "cakes" in the sandbox by our building.  Whatever it was that sparked the interest, eating cake and making cake have been recurring subjects in Maria's imaginative play.  When my parents gave Donnie some Ideal Blox, for his birthday back in November, she commandeered them and made pyramid cakes. Later in the winter, she stripped off her legwarmers to make legwarmer cakes.  Our experiments with playdough and salt dough all led to more cakes.  Some kids makes cities.  Maria makes cakes.

So it was that in late May, while scouring the shelves of our lovely, but expensive local toy store for Maria's birthday gift, I latched onto this little set.   The set includes of three mini-discs stackers, where the discs represent cake layers. The child experiments with different ordering of the layers to come up with new confections. The layers are wood and felt, but the end results resemble the exquisite creations on display at the patisseries in town.  The set seemed a little pricey for a bit of play food, but I justified the expense, saying that not only would this be a beloved toy, but a souvenir of France.

The purchase was a good one.  Maria has enjoyed this toy and still comes to me, holding out one of her creations, "Mommy, a cake for you."

Maria's birthday cake set, along with play baked goods made from salt dough

In this way, Maria had been thinking of cake and building "cakes", but her interest in real baking took off during our visit to the US.  Maria and Muschi made muffins almost every morning, to the delight of all. And once we transferred over to the Sheehys, Maria "helped" Meme and Colleen in several baking projects.

Returning to France, we've been met with a series of unseasonably cold, wet days. Baking has turned out to be a great way of keeping Maria occupied and everyone in good spirits. We've made cookies. We've made several rounds of rhubarb cake.  One afternoon, we made salt dough and rounded out Maria's  inventory of play food by adding croissants, a baguette, a boule, and a number of brioche buns.  For me and my little toaster oven, this qualifies as a streak.

And then, last week, I began reading Bringing Up Bebe, a book that has been making the rounds in the Anglophone playgroup we attend.  Bringing Up Bebe explores the differences between French and Anglo-American parenting styles, and highlights the positive aspects of the French approach.  It was with  pleasure that I learned that family baking sessions are a weekly or bi-weekly ritual for French families.  The author sees baking as one of the ways French families encourage their children to develop patience and self control:

All this baking doesn't just make lot of cakes. It also teaches kids how to control themselves. With its orderly measuring and sequencing of ingredients, baking is a perfect lesson in patience. So is the fact that Franch families don't devour the cake as soon as it comes out of the oven, as I would do. They typically bake in the morning or early afternoon, then wait and eat the cake or muffins as a gouter --the French afternoon snack.

The gouter (pronounced "goo-tay") is a facet of French life that we'd already come to enjoy.   It's less of what we tend to think of as a snack--which in my mind has a rather informal connotation.  It's more of an established mini-meal, at least for children.  It's my understanding the gouter is when many of the luxuriant, flour-rich sweets come into play: cookies, cakes, crepes, chocolate-stuffed croissants, pastries, madelines, etc.   Boxes of cookies come printed with chirpy serving recommendations:  "four cookies + half a mango + a cup of milk = a balanced gouter!"

I love that in French eating culture has a special, ritualized place for this type foods, where they take center stage and are not tacked on the end of a complicated meal.  If the French are any indication, giving cake its due place on the weekly menu--if not daily menu--seems to encourage moderation.

So I'm delighted to find that Maria and I have happened upon a pastime that ties in with an aspect of French dining culture.  I'm looking forward to trying the carrot cake we baked yesterday during today's gouter.  Yes, it's lovely to eat cake.  Now the challenge is not over-doing it...

Maria enjoying her apricot and rhubarb yogurt cake

***

Pamela Druckerman writes that the first cake French children learn to bake is gateau au yaourt, or Yogurt cake.  Yogurt is added, then the empty yoghurt tub is used in lieu of a measuring cup.  The recipe is simple and forgiving--very nice for young children.  We've made it once, adding fresh apricots and chopped rhubarb to the basic batter.   

Gateau au Yaourt (Yogurt Cake) from Pamela Druckerman's Bringing Up Bebe

2 tubs plain whole-milk yogurt (the individual portion-sized tubs, about 175 g/ 6oz)
2 eggs
2 tubs sugar (or just one, depending on how sweet you like it)
1 tsp vanilla essence
just under 1 tub vegetable oil
4 tubs plain flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder

Preheat oven to 190 degrees Celsius. Use vegetable oil to grease a 9-inch round pan (or a loaf tin).

Gently combine the yogurt, eggs, sugar, vanilla and oil. In a separate bowl, mix flour and baking powder. Add dry ingredients to wet ingreidents; mix gently until combined--don't over-mix!
You can add 2 tubs fozen berries, a tub of chocolate hcips, or any flavouring you like. Cook for 35 minutes, then 5 minutes more if it doesn't pass the knife test. It should be almost crispy on the outside, but springy on the inside. Let it cool. The cake is delicious served with tea and a dollop of creme fraiche.

Face It/ 7 Quick Takes (Vol. 1)

A friend once proposed a rival site to Facebook, called Face It. People would only post when they were having a bad day and wanted commiseration. No vacation photos or cute children's antics allowed. Face It posts are written in that spirit. They are "complaining songs" to put it in the parlance of Winnie-the-Pooh.

Beloved Readers, Please regard this as an epistle from the Land o' Jetlag. I'm also joining in on the 7 Quick Takes Friday link party over at Conversion Diary.


--1--
We're back in France after our month-long sojourn in the U.S. Actually, The girls and I are back in France. Donnie is in Scotland, hopefully buying a kilt--wait, no--I mean making friends in the Computational Topology Community and marching forward in the vanguard of Science.

--2--
June has 3o days. We realized this last Saturday, as we made our way to baggage claim after our overnight flight from the US. I had Maria riding on my back in the ergo carrier with Louisa in my arms. Donnie was lugging our formidable array of carry-ons. Maria was exhausted after sleeping only one hour during the flight, and intermittently broke forth in great, reverberating wails that carried through the terminal.

Don: So, I guess I coming back here tomorrow.

We had had it in our heads that Donnie would have two days at home before flying off to the Topology conference. We forgot that, though our flight was leaving the 29th, we'd be landing on the 30th, and....you got it....June has only 30 days.

--3--
Our summer calendar is honeycombed with workshops and conferences, when Donnie will be away. It's important at this stage in Donnie's career that he get out there and meet people, and it's a great blessing that his work provides the travel budget for him to do this. But we do miss him. With this latest trip in particular, I'm gritting my teeth, waiting for his return.

--4--

Indepedence Day was low-key. I dressed the girls in their patriotic Osh-Kosh-B'Gosh outfits (thank you Auntie Ci-Ci!) and we visited my Aussie friend Marisa and her baby, Chloe. Chloe was also dressed in red, white, and blue, which was surprising and rather touching. Marisa fed us wonderful rhubarb cake (made from home-grown rhubarb), which in my mind, stood-in for the traditional strawberry short-cake.

In the afternoon, I googled "patriotic videos for kids" and ended up showing Maria the Peanuts Mayflower Voyagers on Youtube. Not seasonally appropriate, but once I found it, I couldn't bring myself to navigate away. We went on to watch several other Peanuts videos. Maria was enthusiastic about "Noopsy" (yes, the rearrangement of s diphthongs is still with us--but wouldn't "Noopsy" be a great name for a cartoon dog?).

Perhaps it's that Maria is now old enough to appreciate holidays; perhaps it's that being in France has me feeling tenderly about my nation's traditions, but I have a distinct feeling of having missed the boat. After reading this wonderful post on how to celebrate the 4th of July, I'm hoping for some meaty Independence Day celebrations in years to come.

--5--
Bibliodefense

Louisa reached a number of major milestones during our time in the States. She learned a proper belly-off-the-ground crawl. She also learned to pull to a stand. She's faster and stronger and grabbier than when we left.

Now that we are back in the confines of our small apartment, Maria is not so pleased with her sister's new level of mobility. A while back, we told Maria that she should keep her books away from Louisa so that Louisa wouldn't chew on them. It seems Maria took our words as a kind of mandate. She goes into alarm mode when the baby nears her books, yelling "I need some help!" (That phrase has become a great catch-all for Maria. ) Or she takes matters into her own hands, and tries to push or pull Louisa away. We've had some talks about how the baby's safety is important than that of the books.

So far, we've been incredibly lucky in how well the girls get along with one another. I don't see this lasting long (fingers crossed), but I think it's funny that Maria is so protective of her books.

--6--
As the first sentence of this post suggests, Jetlag has been a big thing this week. I didn't manage to get Maria to kindergarten even once because we've all been sleeping in so late. The girls have actually (sort-of) been going to bed at reasonable time. They're sleeping late because they've been skipping naps.

I've been staying up into the wee hours trolling blogs, reading Agatha Christie, and doing other things that fall into the category of "quasi-worthwhile." My Jetlag has been exacerbated by Donnie's absence. It's always harder to settle without the mate close by.

The thing about being up at night, is that it's easy to mistake the cause of the wakefulness. Is it jetlag that has me blogging at this time of night or some manic, unfulfilled desire? What am I doing with my life anyway? Commence existential crisis.

I'm rather good at ascribing deep emotional causes to my physiological states. Let me give you an example. Once, I was in the kitchen preparing a meal, and I suddenly began to feel all teary. I ransacked my brain. Was I sad? Was I anxious? Was this a tide of suppressed pain brimming over my subconscious, at last making itself known? I pulled all kinds grievances out of the closet of my mind, and tried them on for size. It wasn't until after I'd gotten myself into a foul mood, that I looked down and saw that I had been cutting an onion.

Even being aware of this tendency, I still fall pray to it, and the creeping neurosis of the early morning hours.

--7--
BABIES. Two of them!

That is, two of my greatest friends from childhood are each having a baby, both due in December.

I found this out is on Sunday evening, and then didn't fall asleep until 7:30 am. Joyful news to be sure--but in my tired, yet woefully awake brain, the good news underscored the how far I am from my two friends, and how long it has been since I shared in their day-to-day life. It seemed vaguely tragic that they could be a third of the way through their pregnancies already.

Blubb. Blubbbbb.

This goes to show you...If you find yourself awake with Jetlag, go ahead and watch a movie or two. Otherwise you'll take the best possible piece of news and find something to get all mopey and sad about.

But seriously----BABIES!

On that wonderful note, goodnight!

Ongoing and Outgoing

I have a few posts stuck in the queue.  Rather than take on some of the more demanding overdue ones, I thought I'd write a bit about what's going on now.

We're counting down days until to our departure to the US on June first.  We'll be spending a month in the States.  Donnie is will be away at conferences for a ten-day chunk in the the middle. The girls and I will stay with my parents for two weeks and then with Meme and Grandpa for another two.  We're looking forward to time with family and friends in our native land.  We're so very excited to introduce Louisa to her great grandparents, aunts, and uncles.  Of course, there are lots of things to do in the next nine days, but at least we now have Loulou's passport in hand. 

One of our recent ongoing projects been potty training Maria.  We didn't embark on this earlier because a.) M didn't seem very interested and b.) I thought it would be good to wait until it was warm.  I imagined things going better with the trainee running around in a near-naked state.  But it has been a cool spring--we're still in long-sleeves over here.

At last, we decided that potty training is probably one of those things for which there's never an ideal time.  With our flight looming, and with the knowledge that an airplane is a bad place to change a dirty diaper (I'm not sure even Louisa will fit on the in-flight changing table), it seemed best to start the process.  On Saturday, I sat Maria down in front of the Elmo potty training Dvd.  Meanwhile Donnie went on a special shopping trip, returning with juice and special pink Disney princess pull-ups.   And so we began.

It has been going well, though I don't foresee doing away with pull-ups for some time.  It isn't very often that Maria tells us she wants to go on the potty, but she is usually okay with trying when we suggest it.  And she successfully completes the business much of the time.  She certainly seems attracted to doing more of the dressing and undressing herself.  Funnily enough, she's completely uninterested in the whole flushing the toilet ritual.  I was under the impression that was a big motivator. Not with Maria.  She's all about the princess pants.

Meanwhile, after weeks of having a baby who could not crawl but could wriggle and roll her way across a room, we have decided to call it.  It's crawling.  It's a belly-on-the-ground slither, flip-over-and-stretch-to-get-the-thing-you-want kind of crawling, but it's crawling, and it's dangerous to our Internet router.  Of course, now I look around the apartment with new eyes, seeing all the things that Loulou will soon be getting into.  It seems like everything is either a.) pointy b.) festooned with wires, or c.) so flimsy that she'll be able to pull it down.  There is baby-proofing and increased vigilance in the forecast.

Lastly, the girls have what is either a mild case of Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease or a serious case of mosquitoes (or other critters?) finding them delicious.  The doctor is unsure.  You'll see that Louisa has some spots on her cheeks in the following picture.   The picture actually looks milder than real life.  Maria has had big bites that she scratched.  They end up looking rather awful and huge on her pale skin.  The thought of little beasties repeatedly feasting on my girls makes me a little crazy.  We've put netting over Loulou's bed, and I've had bug-repelling essential oils wafting through the apartment.  It makes me miss insect screens--just a little.

Now for a dramatically lit picture of Loulou.  Sorry, none of Maria.  She's just that much quicker, and that much more bored with being in front of the camera.

Trip to Brittany and Normandy: First Three Days

At last, here's the write-up of our Easter vacation (April 6-11).  First of two posts.

Last month, we had a wonderful vacation with Meme and Grandpa.  They rented a mini-van and took us to Britttany and Normandy. It was so good to spend time with them and to see a little more of France.

Here's an account of the trip:

Holy Week

Donnie is away Monday through Thursday at a workshop in Cluny. I'm home with the kids. I'm still not used to managing on my own with these two girls! The days are so full. In the evenings, I work on the labels for Bridget's Apothecary.


Good Friday

On Friday morning, we make a family trip to the market to buy supplies for a welcome dinner. Mom and Dad arrive at our house in the late afternoon, after hours of "exploring" the Paris area. (I won't go into gory details, but the short of it is, if you're renting a car in France, don't use Hertz!) We have a dinner of salmon cooked in parchment paper with lentils and rice and cut veggies on the side.

That evening Donnie and I pack. The children seem to sense our excitement, and wake often in the night.

Saturday

Mom and Dad arrive at the apartment. We load the car and make it our of the house only an hour and a half behind schedule. There's some crying a Louisa falls asleep for her nap, but the rest of the ride goes well. Mom valiantly rides in the seat furthest to the back---a position that induces immediate car sickness. We have a picnic lunch out of the back of the van in a parking lot--cheese with sliced veggies on baguette. I feel vindicated for having bought an absurd amount of cheese at the market the day before.

We arrive in Dinan. Our hotel (the Rue de Jerzual Best Western) is located on a bank of the river Rance. From outside the hotel, we can see the port of Dinan and the town's dramatic viaduct arching over the river valley. I attempt to get the children to a nap. Loulou dozes while Maria warbles and jumps around in her cot. Donnie, Mom and Dad explore the town and find coffee. They return and we slowly make our way up the medieval thoroughfare, Rue de Jerzual, to beautiful restaurant, Creperie de le Artisan.

The ambiance of the Creperie is nothing short of perfect. The dining room has craggy stone walls and timbered ceilings. There are model frigates hanging from the ceilings, and a merry fire in a blackened hearth. At the head our our table there's an oil painting of a genial Breton grandmother, watching us benevolently from her canvas. We choose our crepes. Brittany is famous for its thin buckweat crepes with simple and utterly delicious fillngs. In an adventurous leap, Dad abandones his resolution to never eat tripe, and orders Andouette avec fromage. (Andouette is a sausage from the from linking of a calf's stomach.) We order the children's menu for Maria. Unfortunately, it includes a tri-color cocktail---sugar and dye with a little water added. Before long, Maria drains the glass and is talking in long, incoherent, sugar-charged spurts. Donnie and I share a caramel crepe for dessert.

When we return to the hotel. Meme and Grandpa watch the kids while Donnie and I try out the hotel hot tub. The massage settings are so forceful and create such a roaring froth, that we end up sputtering to keep the foam out of our eyes and mouths. We can't help but giggle, imagining the view the people manning the security camera are seeing. When another couple arrives at the hottub, we intentionally refrain from warning them, wanting to see their reaction to the maelstrom. All four of us have a hearty laugh.

Perhaps it was the three-dye cocktail, or the German cartoons before bed. That night, Maria sleeps terribly, crying in her sleep.

Easter Sunday

After a terrific breakfast the a the hotel restaurant, we set out for Easter Mass at St. Malo Church in old town Dinan. After giving us directions to the church, the concierge tells Donnie: "I appreciate your dressy-casusal outfit for Easter Sunday." Such a funny compliment.

Maria and Louisa fall into deep sleep early during the Mass. Mom and I remain seated, not wanting to wake them after our difficult night. The church is beautiful. It's gothic with a sparsely decorated interior. There are some gorgeous windows, including some showing the transport of St. Malo's relic's to the church in Dinan, and another incredible window showing Our Lady of the Rosary. There's also an ornately painted organ.

After Mass, we set out into town, and eventually plop ourselves down in a restaurant named something like "Maison Fruit de Mer". I order whelks because I'm sure what they are, and ordering them seems like a good way to find out. Turns out they are a sort of sea-snail-type mollusk and are  delicious dipped in mayonnaise. We have oysters and a number of other treats. The meal drags on because our waiter forgets about us multiple times (it was a very busy restaurant). He gives us a round of chocolate mousse to make up for his negligence. We emerge from the restaurant a good three hours after we entered, stuffed to the gills and very happy. A fitting Easter feast.

We return to the hotel and attempt to get the kids to rest, but it's already after four--no dice. Meanwhile, Meme sets up an Easter egg hunt. The tradition in France is that on Holy Thursday, the church bells fly to Rome and return on Easter Sunday. During their return journey, the bells deposit chocolate eggs, bunnies, and hens in the garden. We love this version of the story since it ties in better with religious tradition than the Easter bunny.

After Meme gives the signal knock on our door, we tell Maria that the Bells have passed by. A trail of plastic eggs leads through Meme and Grandpa's room and into the hotel courtyard to a stash of Easter candy and gifts. There are chocolates, new pajamas, some Easter-themed books, and a new game. Thank you, Meme for bringing all the Easter goodies for the hunt!

That evening, Donnie and I explore a little more of Dinan's medieval quarter. We walk on the ramparts and see the statue of Betrand de Guy. What a lovely thing it is, to walk through an old city at night! There are wonderful smells, and our appetites finally reawaken after our Easter gorging. We stop into a tiny pizza parlor, and in less the ten minutes are walking back down Rue de Jerzual, pie in hand. When we return, the children are still awake. We have a late night pizza and clementine party. Then it's lights out for everybody.

Face It: On Haircut Remorse

A friend once proposed a rival site to Facebook, called Face It.  People would only post when they were having a bad day and wanted commiseration. No vacation photos or cute children's antics allowed.  Face It posts are written in that spirit.  They are "complaining songs" to put it in the parlance of Winnie-the-Pooh.

  

My Dearest Maria,

Lately, I have been thinking about what our relationship will be like when you are a teenager. I imagine that your feelings about me will be complex. You will think:

She is my mother.  She gave me life...

....but she also gave me that haircut.

There it is, staring at you from the pages of our family album. Memories of (what I hope will be) a mostly golden childhood will flicker and grow wan. How you were ever happy with that on your head?  You will look at me with sad, solemn, brown eyes, and ask "why?"

So here's where I explain myself.


Once upon a time, you had more hair than any of the other babies in your peer group. I tried to corral it with bows and barrettes and tiny rubber bands, but it was too much. It hung in your eyes, stuck to your face, and generally resembled a haystack. One day, I sat you down and chopped it off. "Why didn't I do that months ago?" I asked myself. That day you looked like a toddler version of Jean d'Arc.  The cut was simple and striking.  A few days later, emboldened by my first success, I sat you down again, and did some fine cutting to give you my best version of the Vidal Sassoon stacked bob. The muses of the barber's art were with me that day--it looked well. People complimented you cute, "French" haircut, and asked where we'd had it done. I was pleased.

But from there, the muses left me. I tried to recreate that cut, only to find that my hands didn't know how. After each attempt, I said to myself, "next time, I'll find a professional." But as your hair grew back out, I'd forget my resolution, and remember that first chic cut. And so I'd find myself once again, scissors in hand, with the chant "Save the money!  Cut it yourself!" resounding in my head.


I see you now, thirteen-year-old Maria.  You are glaring at me.  "Mother as tragic artist" does not compute.  A little desperate, I do what no mother should and appeal to your vanity:


Well you know, Dear, any little girl can look cute in pigtails. It takes a really cute little girl to pull off the hairdo of a Norman knight on his way to subjugate the Saxons.

Norman knights on their way to subjugate the Saxons.

You're not appeased. I read accusation in every line of your face. It's too much. I snap.


Fine!  You had running nose that I couldn't keep up with. That hair needed to be gone. It was the boogies--the boogies made me do it!

There, thirteen-year-old daughter, an answer more awkward than any you imagined.  Be at peace.


***
This post is really an apology to my dearest Mum.  She chose the highly practical bowl-cut for me as a child, and thirteen-year-old Julia (and 27 year old Julia) have been known to gripe about it.  But the days of griping are over.  28 year old Julia understands.  Generational justice has been served.

A Visit from Uncle Chester*

Our good friend Nic visited us two weeks ago (April 19-22). Nic roomed with Don at Princeton, and again during grad school in Pittsburgh. Unfortunately for us, Nic's studies took him across the pond to England. This visit was his first time meeting the girls, and the first time we'd seen him in many years.

It was a happy weekend. There really is nothing like sharing a meal (and some fine, summer-appropriate whiskey) with an old friend. Aside from being a long-time comrade, Nic is one of the brainiest and most sociable people we know. He regaled us with stories of about his time in the rarified air of Oxford and Cambridge. He talked math with Donnie.

Nic got a taste of our "vita domestica." He visited the market with us, toted our recycling to the drop point, and listened to us discuss the finer points of sleep-training. To top it off, he got to hold a tooting baby. Now doesn't that make you want to visit!

Just before his departure, we made sure to take these pictures.

Lovely to see you, Nic! We hope it won't be long till our next meeting.





*After a mysterious packaged addressed to "Chester Oxford" was delivered to the boys' apartment, Donnie and I decided that Nic must be using the name as an alias. Since then, we have received a number of communications from Uncle Chester, in the form of postcards, letters, and even a chocolate rabbit. Write on, Uncle Chester.